


Who Killed Markiplier?: Shot in the Dark

by EmmiBee



Category: Who Killed Markiplier? - Fandom, Youtubers, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 11:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14104251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmiBee/pseuds/EmmiBee
Summary: When District Attorney Emma Bailey is invited to a poker night by her old friend Markiplier, the most tragedy she expects is the loss of her pocket money.However, a violent murder is only the first of many mysteries to appear; and Emma finds out that perhaps she doesn't know her friends as well as she thought she did.Something seems strange about this house as well...





	Who Killed Markiplier?: Shot in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This story was posted first on tumblr, split into parts. It has since been edited for the format of AO3. Each chapter will be posted as it is finished and edited, so there will likely be rather large gaps of time between posts.  
> The chapters are split as the youtube videos are, so instead of many chapters there are four long ones.  
> Thank you for your support, and I hope you enjoy Shot in the Dark!

When I told the mayor I needed a few days off, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind.

The taxi pulls away, leaving me with only my small overnight suitcase and pooling moonlight. I stand in front of a huge manor, impressive towers and sprawling grounds laden with blue-gray shadows.

My wrist lifts automatically, my watch reassuring me that, indeed, it is ten minutes to eight, and I am a very bad guest. I step up to the porch, toward who appears to be a man in a safari outfit standing near the door. He turns, noticing me, and smiles brightly.

"Oh—bully!—and here I thought I was going to be the last guest to arrive!" says the mustached man, clearly delighted. Before I can say anything, he takes my free hand in both of his and shakes it vigorously. His eyes—what I can see of them behind the glasses and ridiculous hat— are clear and mirthful, but hold a certain brightness that's vaguely….unsettling. 

"My friends call me the Colonel," the man is saying. "You're welcome to do the same, should it please you, Mrs…?"

"Miss," I correct him. "Bailey. Emma Bailey. Pleased to meet you."

"Ah, I see, I see, you must be that friend Damien has spoken so highly of." He nods several times, grinning knowingly. 

"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow, prompting a boisterous laugh.

"Ahhh, don't you worry about a thing. Mr.  _ Mayor  _ is very proud of our new District Attorney." 

He raises his eyebrows significantly, and I frown slightly. What has Damien been saying about me? We haven't spoken about anything besides work for the past two months. "That's… flattering."

"Bully. Well, Miss Bailey, I'm sure you're eager to see the magnificent manor; please, after you."

He releases my hand and gestures toward the door. I smile, albeit weakly, and knock.

The door is opened by a well-dressed butler. He smiles politely and gestures me in. "Ah, bonjour," he says, in a strange foreign— definitely not French— accent. "Welcome to Markiplier Manor. Your invitation, please."

I fish the white envelope out of my pocket and present it to the butler, who takes both it and my suitcase. "Very good, very good. Right this way." He leads me into the living area, where the other guests are gathering. "Your room will be at the top of the stairs. Good luck at the tables tonight." He smiles at me again and bows slightly. "I shall fetch your drink forthwith."

I smile politely back at him as he leaves, then turn to see Damien, my friend, speaking to a man in a deerstalker cap. 

"Ah, there you are, Emma," Damien exclaims, seeing me. His companion slinks off, eyeing me with exaggerated and almost comical suspicion. At my quizzical look, Damien explains, "Oh, that was Abe. He's a detective, evidently, and another friend of Mark's. He's eccentric, but… well, Mark trusts him, so… don't worry about him. How are you settling into your new office?"

I pause at the change in subject. "Fine. It's...big. Bigger than any office I've ever worked in. But it's nice. And, ah, so is the new nameplate."

His eyes light up. "I wanted you to have one as soon as you moved in. It helps make things feel more...official." At my hesitant look, he takes my hand in both of his and grips it reassuringly. "Now, I know this will take some getting used to, but there is no one I'd rather have alongside me, protecting this great city of ours."

We share a smile, and I try to ignore the sudden warmth that comes from his words. One of the other guests--the Colonel, I think— calls his name. Damien drops my hand. "I'll see you at the tables soon. Try not to rob me blind again," he chuckles. "I know we haven't really spoken outside of work in a while, but I promise tonight we'll catch up."

I watch him leave to greet the Colonel. I tilt my nose up in curiosity. Something smells delicious. I follow the scent into a lavish dining room, offhandedly wondering at the price of some of these decorations.

A large man in a chef's hat and an apron is picking up a tray from the table, and I light up. I haven't eaten since breakfast, and something to eat sounds amazing.

Before I can speak, however, he looks up and snarls. "If you're looking for hor'dourves, I'll get 'em when I'm good and ready!"

I'm taken aback. This is the man that Mark hired to serve him meals every day?

He turns into the kitchen, and I step forward, about to protest. He whips back around, brandishing a ladle threateningly. "And stay out of my kitchen!"

"Now, now, let's not be rude to our guest." The butler stands on the other side of the dining room, holding a tray of champagne glasses. The two exchange venomous looks, and I edge away from the kitchen.

The door slams behind the chef, and the butler smiles at me apologetically. "So sorry about that. Here is your champagne." 

I take the glass, a bit surprised. Ever since a scary incident back in our junior year of university, Mark hadn't taken a sip of alcohol on threat of death. Perhaps he was just being polite to his guests? But he had never been particularly altruistic…

Damien comes to stand beside me, his own glass in his hand. His eyes hold the same questions.

"Welcome, welcome, one and all!"

The subject of our rumination descends the staircase, wrapped in a red silk dressing gown and white cavat. Good-natured greetings rise from the guests, 

"My name is Markiplier." Mark bows slightly. Damien and I raise our eyebrows at each other at the use of Mark's stage name. "Thank you for joining me on this auspicious evening. So good to be surrounded by such close and trusted friends." He looks at me pointedly as he says this, making me wonder what had happened during those five years of  _ not talking _ to make us so close.

"Now this evening is not all about the poker," Mark continues. "It's not all about me." He gestures to himself. "It's about you." He gestures to me, and then the rest of the guests. 

More cheers and nodding heads.

Mark raises his hands grandly. "So drink up and be merry! Life is for the living. Who knows…" our eyes meet and he smiles jovially. "I could be dead tomorrow."

He laughs, and the Colonel and the man in the deerstalker cap join him.

Damien lifts his glass and smiles. 

I don't. 

We drink.

~

Before we try our luck at the tables, we have supper. Mark's terrifying chef prepared spaghetti with meatballs, and we all sit around the long table. Mark sits at the head of the table, the Colonel sits at his right and Damien sits at his left. I sit next to Damien, and the detective— "Abe"— sits across from me, giving me strange looks.

"Now, isn't this nice," Mark says, passing the butter dish. 

"Yes, very extravagant," the Colonel replies. The sarcastic lilt in his voice shocks me. I look at Mark to see his response, but his smile is as jovial as ever.

I look to Damien for an explanation, but he raises his eyebrows at me and smiles around a mouthful of food. Abe stuffs his face with garlic bread, his scrutinous glare trained on me. I give him a look, and his eyes dart away. As soon as he thinks I'm not looking, he's staring at me again.

"Miss Bailey!" the Colonel booms. I give a start, just barely managing to keep from flinging my fork across the room. "Damien tells me you've just moved into your new office."

I carefully set my fork down. "Yes, I moved the last box in today."

"How exciting! You must be eager to get to work, eh? Why, if you're anything like our dear Damien, you were unpacking your office until sundown and forgot that the party was tonight."

I nearly choke on my water. 

Damien and Mark are grinning at me expectantly. Abe has an eyebrow raised in curiosity. Slowly, deliberately, I set down my drink, pick up a napkin and dab my lips delicately. 

I then fold my napkin and set it in my lap. 

With agonizing slowness, I lean forward and look the Colonel dead in the eye, tailoring my tone to be as flat as possible. The other three wait with bated breath.

I speak. "That is absolutely correct."

Jaws drop. 

Then, everyone bursts into laughter, Mark tilting his head back, Damien covering his face with a napkin, the Colonel guffawing into his fist. Abe's laugh is obviously fake, but it fails to bother me as much.

"Why, Mark, this bird has better comedic timing than you ever did!" the Colonel booms.

"Her timing in general is better than yours, my friend," Mark retorts, his smile becoming much more pointed.

The focus is suddenly pulled from my quip and toward the two of them. They continue to chuckle, but their eyes are locked in a poisonous glare.

I look to Damien. This time, his smile is thin-lipped. He catches me looking and smiles more genuinely, but quickly turns his attention back to his plate.

What in the world?

After supper, Mark and the detective leave to help prepare the tables, and the Colonel goes to his room for some reason or other. I'm left alone with Damien in the parlor, staring into the fireplace introspectively. 

"... What was that?" I ask. He looks at me.

"What was what?"

I raise one eyebrow. He sighs.

"Mark and the Colonel's relationship is… complicated. It's hard to explain."

"They seem to have history," I prompt.

He gives a short laugh. "I should hope so. They're brothers."

I pause, open my mouth, then close it again. "...  _ Oh. _ "

"Yep." He pops the  _ p,  _ shifting his weight distractedly. "They grew up here together."

"Mark never mentioned they were brothers when he talked about the Colonel."  _ Neither did you,  _ I think, but don't vocalize. Damien seems to be in enough distress. I don't need to add to it with meaningless accusations.

He seems to understand what I'm thinking, and looks away. "Yes, well… they had… conflicting interests ever since we were young. They didn't always like to acknowledge that they were related."

"Surely this isn't just an old grudge," I say. "There seems to be more to it than that."

Damien's lip curls subtly. "Oh, it's certainly a grudge. Just a more recent one."

I blink in surprise, then try to think of what could possibly be going on between them. Flashes of Mark sobbing, Damien and I imploring him to file for divorce, the long silence afterward, rumor after rumor filling the newspapers with no true facts surfacing… 

I pinch my lips between my teeth. "... Was it true, then? About... Celine?"

Damien gives me a sharp look. "No." A muscle in his neck twitches. His mouth twists. "...Maybe." He looks down and rubs his palm over the knob of his cane. "...I don't know. We haven't… we haven't talked in a while."

_ Since she left Mark, _ I realize. Celine had cut out everyone, including her own brother.

He wouldn't appreciate pity, or anything resembling it. I settle for nodding. 

"NOW what's the long faces about!"

The Colonel appears beside me and I shriek, nearly leaping into Damien's arms.

The Colonel laughs loudly, slinging his arm around Damien's shoulders. "Bit of a jumpy one, eh, Dames? Oh-ho-ho, don't worry, we're all friends tonight. It's time for me to drag you two all over the tables!" 

They laugh good-naturedly, the somberness of the moment forcibly forgotten. I bring myself to smile. This is a party, after all. Soon there will be drinks and chips and cards, and time to forget everything that worries us. It's a time for fun and reconciliation, for old friendships rekindled and new ones forged.

Tonight will be a night to remember.

~

I wake up the next morning with a headache and pain in my mouth. My vest and tie are draped across a chair and my shoes are lined up neatly underneath it. 

I sit up and stretch, notice my blouse is partially unbuttoned, and button it hastily. I really let loose last night, it seems… my memories of the party are fuzzy, but I do remember drinking quite a bit.

One of Mark's dressing gowns is hung on the back of the door. I pull it on sleepily and slip on my loafers, then glance in the mirror to make sure I'm somewhat presentable. My hair is passable, but there's something smeared on my cheek...

I snatch my glasses from the nightstand and set them on my face, squinting. Is that… lipstick?

_...I don't wear lipstick. _

I scrub it off with my handkerchief, frowning. At least it comes off… but there's a cut on my lip. 

I have a vague memory of getting into a fight with Abe, the supposed "detective" in the deerstalker cap. Fists flew, and I nailed him once or twice… did I get knocked down? Damien's flushed, concerned expression floats in front of my face. His hand patting my cheek… he's the one who helped me to my room.

I wipe off the last of the lipstick and dried blood on my chin. My stomach grumbles… this is good enough. Time for breakfast.

As I step out of the room, the butler crosses in front of me with a glass on a tray. He smiles pleasantly. "Ah, good morning. Hope you've had a good night's rest."

I smile, neither affirming nor denying. I flopped into bed at around 1:30, and while I know I fell asleep fairly quickly, my current state isn't much indication that I slept particularly well.

He seems to understand, and hands me the strange-looking drink. "I have prepared for you a seltzer with cocaine. Best thing for the morning after if you ask me." My eyes widen, but the butler winks and moves on.

I take a cautious sip. It tastes fine, and does help with the buzzing in my head, so I decide to keep it.

Damien is standing on the landing, dressed in his tux, perfectly composed, looking out into the morning sunshine with his usual contemplative air. "Good morning, Damien," I say, stifling a yawn.

He turns. His eyes drift up to my still rather mussed up hair, then down to my generally disheveled appearance, and a smirk tugs at his lips. Finally, he grins. “There’s our little monster,” he laughs. “You really knocked them dead last night.”

I flush, both from his look and his words. "Did I? … I don't really remember."

"Nearly cleaned me out," he says. "Haven't seen you go wild like that since our days at university."

Is that what happened? Maybe I can finally pay those fees, then.

"Good to let the beast out every once in a while, eh, old friend?" He nudges me with his cane, but his smile suddenly wanes. "Then again, I'm… I'm still not exactly sure what it is we're supposed to be celebrating here. I mean, it's good to have the old gang back together, but out of the blue like this seems…" He pauses, then shakes his head and smiles once again. "Anyway. Now is not the time to become conspiratorial. Mark can do with his life as he wants. If he wishes to invite his old friends over with no previous indication of his intentions… well, he should. Life is ours to choose, after all."

I nod, remembering the plaque from his office bearing that same phrase. It's something he's always said… he picked it up from some inspirational speaker who came to speak at our university during the war. I've never been very attracted to it, as it sounds like an excuse for inaction. 

However, when Damien says it, it always sounds… hopeful. Makes me feel like I can do anything. I never mind that phrase as much coming out of his mouth.

Our eyes meet for half a second too long. He clears his throat. "I, ah, have some work to finish, but I'll meet you at breakfast. Careful on the stairs."

He retreats to his room hastily, and I slowly descend the staircase, sipping the seltzer. It seems to be a lovely sunny morning, and I smell eggs and bacon cooking. 

Perhaps there will be biscuits as well, or toast. 

Coffee is brewing. I can smell the rich roast. Mark always liked his coffee strong.

An art piece catches my eye as I pass into the hall, something ancient… and expensive. A suit of armor greets me from the other side. I vaguely remember it from before, but had the hallway always been so cold…?

I turn into the parlor, and my glass shatters to the floor.

~

A crack of sudden lightning illuminates the body. 

_ Mark's _ body, twisted unnaturally on the floor in front of the fireplace. 

There's no blood. His face is turned away from me. I don't touch him, but I don't need to. It's obvious.

Mark is dead.

Abe the Detective walks into the room, wrapped in a white robe but still wearing his deerstalker cap. He's speaking: "Hey, did you hear that lightning—"

He cuts off with a strangled gasp at the sight of the body. He then turns to yell to the rest of the house, "There's been a murder!"

Lightning crashes again. I flinch. "Uh, Detective—"

The butler walks in. "Excuse me but did you hear—" He sees the body. "MURDER!"

Lightning. I try again, "Abe, I don't think—"

The chef enters. "Did you—" He shrieks. "MURDER!" just before another clap of lightning and thunder.

My ears hurt. "Detective—"

Abe seems to notice me for the first time, and scowls. He steps over the body and grabs me by the front of my dressing gown. "What happened? Who's in charge around here?" Before I can answer, he pushes me back, sending me stumbling. "Trick question! That guy!" He points to the body. "He's dead now, which makes me in charge."

I regain my balance, adjusting the dressing gown around myself. "That doesn't quite follow—"

"SO, you better listen up good, bucko. In case you haven't been paying attention, there's been a bit of a  _ killin' _ ."

We pause, and wait expectantly. 

Eerie silence.

Abe continues. "You're my prime suspect, so you better get to explainin' right quick as to what, when, where and why you happen to be here upon the time of this man’s death!"

My shock is overridden by extreme offense. "How dare you insinuate—!"

"Sir, the body's cold," the butler says, kneeling by Mark's corpse. "He's been dead a while."

Abe grunts. "A likely story…" He glances at me. "...That I happen to believe completely. You're off the hook… for now. But I'm a detective—"

"Is that so?" I scoff, crossing my arms. "I've heard a lot of talk, but I haven't seen any badge,  _ Detective _ ."

"Yeah, you want us to trust you, you gotta prove it!" the chef agrees, mirroring my stance. For a moment our eyes meet, and we nod in solidarity.

Abe rolls his eyes. " _ Here. _ That good enough for you,  _ ladies _ ?" He whips out his wallet and exposes his badge. The chef bristles, but I'm distracted by the accordian of photos that cascade from the wallet. 

He notices, and quickly starts folding them back up. "Oh… those are my old partners. Don't ask me about them."

I nod. "I understand. I know it's—"

"FINE, I'll tell you!" 

"Oh, alright."

"Each one of them died." He stares intensely at me. “Each death more tragic than the last.” A few of them even died in… ironically hilarious ways " — the chef and I exchange glances— "Which made it all the more tragic." Abe eyes me up and down, then nods decisively. "But hey! You look like you're up to the task. You're my new partner!"

I gape, and take a step back, waving my hands. The backs of my legs hit the couch behind me. "Um. No. No thank you. No thanks."

He laughs. "That's what all my old partners used to say, doll… right before they died." Realization dawned on his face. "...Huh…"

I look at the chef for rescue. He says nothing, just looks back at me with wide eyes. 

Great. I'm on my own then

I sigh. "Abe, being your partner sounds like—"

"You're overqualified of course—"

"STOP interrupting me!" I jab a finger into his chest, and he backs up with wide eyes, hands raised in surrender. "Ahem." I fold my arms. "This sounds stupid and dangerous… but for Mark, I'll do it. I'll be your partner… temporarily."

He grins. "Alright. Hand me that fingerprinting kit behind you… partner."

He winks.

I sigh.

Thus begins our investigation.

~

I leave the four in the parlor, mumbling something about needing to get dressed. Nobody stops me, but I suspect that has more to do with the look on my face than my reason for absence.

I stumble to my room. Kicking the door closed, I strip off the dressing gown that belongs to a dead man. Although it may not be the one he died in, I want it as far away from me as possible.

A fresh blouse, my trousers, my vest, and my tie go on. Slightly shaking hands smooth my hair down in front of the mirror. Part of me wonders why I'm bothering going through my normal routine when my friend is lying dead downstairs. 

But perhaps that's exactly why. Routine is what keeps us sane. A reminder of order in the world. A protection of sorts, from the worms of doubt eating away at the mind. A silver bullet to the demons of insanity.

_ Sanity is madness put to good uses.  _

I shake my head at my reflection. Mark had never read more than theatrical literature, but George Santayana's poetry had piqued his interests. He was particularly fond of the man's philosophies about sanity, or lack thereof.

Now that I think of it, perhaps my ongoing concerns for Mark weren't unfounded.

As I move to close my suitcase, my thumb brushes a small bump on the inside lip.

I pause. Slowly, I press down and to the right.

A small compartment pops open, and the gleam of polished silver lays against the velvet. After some deliberation, I pocket the palm-sized revolver. If there's a killer on the loose, I want to be ready.

I close my suitcase and slide it back under the bed. Taking a breath to steady myself, I exit the room.

I run into the Colonel in the hall. "Ah, there you are!" he laughs. "You were quite the rapscallion at last night's festivities. I was rather impressed, I daresay. Now, what's all the hubbub about?" he asks, with a friendly twitch of his mustache. 

The look on my face must tell him enough, for his face falls slightly. "...Ah… nothing good, I understand?"

"Mark is dead," I say numbly.

His eye twitches. "... Impossible. I just saw him yesterday.”

"He was murdered." A clap of thunder shakes the house. "... It must've happened after we all went to bed. I'm helping Abe with the investigation."

The Colonel's lip curls subtly. "I see." My eyebrows raise, but he smiles suddenly and claps me on the shoulder. "Best you not keep him waiting, then! I'll be having a pipe in the theater lounge."

I must have gotten distracted, for he's gone in the next second.

_ Does he even care that his brother is dead? _

When I return to the parlor, the body is covered in a white sheet and the area is blocked off with makeshift barricades. I step around them.

"There you are," the Detective says without looking up. He's scribbling on a legal pad, but I can't make out what he's writing. 

He hugs it to his chest when I try to see. We glare at each other for a moment.

"...Emma?"

We all turn to see Damien in the doorway. Shock is etched on his face, and he fumbles a bit before speaking again. "Emma, Detective, what… what happened here?"

The butler, having just finished cleaning up the mess I made by dropping my glass earlier, looks up quickly. "Oh, Mister Mayor. I'm so sorry, but… there's been a murder."

Lightning flashes outside. Damien is slack-jawed. "... Murder?" He jumps as thunder and lightning flash again. "...Who?"

The Chef, who's standing to the side, shrugs sadly. "It's Mark."

Damien stares agape at him. He then looks at me, then the Detective.

"I'm afraid he's telling the truth," Abe says with a sigh. "Mark's been… killed."

The Chef looks up expectantly, but the storm is strangely quiet. Damien shakes his head slowly. "...Why? Who would do this?"

"That's exactly what me and my new partner here are going to find out." Abe moves to put his hand on my shoulder but I step away. He awkwardly adjusts his hat instead. 

Damien's eyes meet mine. We have a silent conversation.

_ You're his new partner? _

_ Temporarily. _

_ This is insane. This… this can't be happening. _

_ Damien… _

"Um… excuse me." The butler clears his throat. "I feel like we should call the authorities for them to handle this matter."

Abe growls. "Look buddy, as far as you're concerned, I  _ am _ the authorities." He whips out his badge again and the photos cascade down. He attempts to fold them back up, but fails, and so just stuffs his wallet in his pocket. "The fact of the matter is, I believe the killer is right here amongst us, in this very house. With that freaky lightning storm outside, none of us would get very far anyway."

Despite his claims, I've slowly crossed to the telephone and lifted it off the reciever. I hold it to my ear, but I hear nothing. "We wouldn't be able to call, even if we tried. The line is dead. Must have been the storm."

"See?" Abe says, crossing his arms triumphantly. "What did I tell you."

The butler blinks. "You told me that  _ you  _ were the—"

"In the meantime, we're stuck here. But Miss Bailey and I are gonna get to the bottom of this. The rest of you, stay on the grounds, make sure you're always in sight of somebody else… and pray to God you're not next to be murdered."

Thunder rattles the window. "I'll… I'll go check on the rooms," the butler mumbles. 

The Chef straightens his uniform. "I'll get back to cooking. All this death made me hungry!"

I stare after him mutely, having trouble processing what he just said.

Damien blinks, and swallows hard. He looks at me, then at the body, then shakes his head, slowly backing out of the room. "I… I need to talk to the Colonel about this."

I reach out, but he's gone before I can say a thing.

~

I kneel next to Abe, taking notes on the information he's finding. His methods are questionable at best, and downright illegal at worst, but I'm too busy copying down the rapid-fire information he's throwing at me to protest. 

"So judging by the temperature of the body," he says, tossing the thermometer somewhere behind him. "I am sure that Mark was killed at around 1:30 am last night."

He suddenly looks at me and stands, pointing a finger accusingly at me. "So what were  _ you _ doing at 1:30 am last night?!"

I correct the spelling of some of my notes. "I was asleep."

He blinks. "You sleep with your eyes open?"

I roll my eyes. "No, I woke up to vomit and saw the clock when I went back to bed. I didn't leave my room."

"Oh." He makes a face. "Well, it checks out. You're  _ probably  _ not the killer." 

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

"So we need to figure out where everyone was and what they were doing around that time, or, at the very least, who saw Mark last."

I nod and stand. "I'll ask around, try to piece together what exactly happened last night."

"Good call. I'll stick with the body and run more… tests."

I decide I don't want to be privy to whatever he's planning to do, and step around the barriers and out of the room.

I head to the theater, hoping that the Colonel is still there like he said he would be. The door is ajar. 

I walk toward it, but suddenly hear loud voices, seemingly in an argument.

One of them is Damien. "How can you be so flippant?" he's saying.

The other voice is definitely the Colonel. "Flippant? I'm taking this matter  _ very _ seriously."

I take another step toward the door, and see Damien through it. I can only see his profile, but his posture is more than enough to tell me how he feels.

"Don't give me that," he growls. "I know you hated him, but… even after everything that happened, Will, Mark reached out to you!"

The Colonel scoffs. "Oh, what do you want from me?"

Damien is taken aback. "Wh- I want you to care!"

"Just because I'm not weeping like a child doesn't mean that I don't care."

My friend shakes his head. He's absolutely appalled. "I can't believe you."  His voice rises angrily. "You come find me when you're done being a pompous  _ brat _ !"

He spins on his heel and marches to the door. I stumble back as I realize he's coming my way, but I'm too late.

Damien pauses when he sees me, and some mixture of embarrassment and regret crosses his face before he pulls the door open. "Excuse me," he mumbles, avoiding my eyes and pushing past.

I nearly stop him, but I haven't seen him that upset in so long. Maybe he needs space before he's ready to talk about it.

The theater is extravagant, as is Mark's style, with several rows of cushioned seats and a miniature stage. I wonder offhand if he used to perform for himself on this stage, some lonely late night... 

I move into the lounge and find the Colonel smoking a pipe. 

"Damien, I don't—" He notices me finally, and his eyebrows shoot up. "Oh!" He stands, all smiles, his tone changing drastically. "Miss Bailey. You seem a mite better than you did this morning. Bacon and eggs put the spring back in your step?"

"Mark is still dead," I say, unable to keep the bite from my tone. 

"I see," he says bitterly, setting his pipe down. "Then you must be here for the Detective's 'Investigation of Murder'." He air quotes dramatically.

Thunder and lightning flash. The Colonel drops his hands, looking around.

"Colonel, can you tell me what happened last night?" I sigh, my notepad and pen at the ready. 

He turns back to me and scowls. "Yes, I'll tell you."

"Excellent. Please proceed."

"It's very simple: Mark got drunk, fell down the stairs and killed himself."

I pause. "... Mark can't drink. Alcohol is deadly to him."

"Well, there you are, then."

"You just said he fell down the stairs."

"Yes, he fell down the stairs and died."

"How did he die?"

"He fell down the stairs, I just said."

"But you said he was drunk."

"He  _ was _ drunk."

"Then he died from alcohol poisoning?"

"Yes, and then he died from falling down the stairs."

I pause, reading over the meaningless notes I'm taking. "... You don't actually know what happened, do you?"

He crosses his arms. "You're the detective, madame. You figure it out."

"I'm a lawyer."

"And Mark was an idiot. Whether it was the stairs or the alcohol, you can be sure that it was his own doing." He taps his forehead meaningfully, raising and lowering his eyebrows at me.

I nod slowly, backing away. “Yes, well… I’m going to investigate the rest of the house.”

He nods solemnly, picking up his pipe and sitting back down. “Go then. I’ll be here when you're done."

_ I'm sure you will be, Colonel. _

_ ~ _

I find the butler in the hallway outside. He appears to be waiting for me, and I wonder if he has something to say.

"Excuse me, Miss Bailey," he says, right on cue.

"I beg your pardon," I say suddenly. "But I'd rather not call you 'Butler' my whole time here. What is your name?"

"Ah… Benjamin, Miss." He smiles, seeming to be surprised that I even cared. 

"Benjamin, then. May I help you?"

"Actually, I was wondering if I might help  _ you _ ." He clears his throat. "There's not a single detail of this house that I'm not privy to, and not a single guest that I haven't personally vetted."

This piques my interest. "Is that so?"

"Yes, Miss. And there is an area of interest that I would be glad to show you… I believe it is important."

I keep my notepad at the ready. "Please, lead the way, then."

Benjamin leads me to the other end of the house… although it seems to be a shorter walk than usual.

We stop at the gate to the wine cellar. "Is this it?" I ask, a bit doubtfully.

He nods, completely serious. "I warn you. What you are about to see is not for the faint of heart. A domain of evil this is… but in we must go." He opens the gate, looks into the darkness, and steps to the side. "...You first."

_ How chivalrous, _ I think with an internal eye-roll.

The stairwell is dark, and I feel the coolness from the controlled temperature of the cellar even before I enter the cellar itself. Instead of relieving me from the humidity of the storm, however, it's oppressive. Like a wet cloth being draped over my chest, weighing me down, making it hard to breathe.

I pause on the last step and take a laborious breath. 

_ In we must go.  _ I enter.

The cellar is dimly lit and sparsely decorated, yet immaculate. That is, I think it's immaculate until I look down…

"AVERT YOUR EYES!" Benjamin dashes past me and falls to his knees, sliding into position next to a single smashed wine bottle on the floor. "I'm so sorry you had to see this!"

I blink. "It's...it's just a wine bottle."

"Yes, but it's the master's favorite," he cries pitifully, burying his face in his hands. "And now it's all over the floor. He would be so displeased!"

I jump forward and grab his arm as he prepares to clean the mess up with a broom. "Wait! Don't, not yet. That's evidence. Let me get the Detective."

Benjamin looks up at me with wide eyes. "But… the mess… "

"Just a moment. Just one moment, understand? I'll be right back. Don't touch anything!"

I run back up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and bellow, "ABE! WE FOUND SOMETHING!"

With a muted  _ smack,  _ I run right into him in the hall, recoiling immediately. He pants, his pistol in one hand and the poker from the fireplace in the other. "What? What is it? Spit it out!" he yells in my face.

"Benjamin found something in the wine cellar," I gasp, out of breath.

"Benjamin?"

"The butler."

"I KNEW THAT GUY KNEW SOMETHING!" He throws the poker to the side and charges past me toward where I came from. I follow best I can, but by the time I get to the top of the stairs, he's halfway down at a breakneck speed. 

I shout a warning, but he trips, disappearing around the corner, and I wince as I hear rubbery flesh hit the floor.

"You okay, Abe?" I shout, starting down. 

There is no answer. Instead, I hear him yell, "WHAT DID YOU DO? WHAT DID YOU DO WITH IT?"

I round the corner to see him holding a very distraught Benjamin by the scruff of his neck and pointing the revolver in his face.

"Whoa!" I approach him carefully. "Abe, put the gun away. What happened?"

He shakes Benjamin roughly. “This little  _ manservant  _ got rid of the evidence before I could see it!"

The butler covers his face with his hands, sobbing pitifully. "I couldn't stand it! The master would have been so angry with me!" 

I sigh. "Benjamin, that was evidence."

He's not listening. He cries into his hands. "If only he were still alive!"

Abe and I exchange glances. The detective releases the butler, who drops to his knees in anguish. 

I look at Abe. "Maybe we should, uh...." I gesture vaguely.

He gives me a single nod. We ascend the staircase, leaving Benjamin in the cellar. "Well there goes that chance," he grumbles.

"I'll keep an eye on him."

"I'm sure you will." He gives me a weird look. "Have you talked to Chef yet?"

I check my list. "No, he was going to be next."

"You do that. I'll meet up with you later."

~

Next up is the Chef, and to be perfectly honest, I'm not looking forward to it. 

I consider myself reasonably competent at self-defense, and I can fairly easily take on any of the other men in the house should the need arise. The Chef, however, is someone I doubt my abilities against. His size alone is an advantage over me, and his volatile temper seems dangerous.

_ Pull up your big girl trousers, Emma.  _

I turn into the kitchen and find Chef violently chopping something on a cutting board. When I look more carefully, I see it's… a glob of spaghetti?

He whips around and jabs the knife at me. "I thought I told you to stay out of my kitchen!"

I fight to keep my composure. "I'm helping the detective with his investigation," I say slowly. "I was… wondering if I could ask you what happened last night."

"Ha!" He stabs the knife into the cutting board. "You think I'm the culprit,  _ don't you? _ "

"I… did not say that."

"Well, I might look like a sweet and innocent man, but some people with short life-spans might think otherwise. I can't imagine why,  _ can you _ ?"

"I— are you insinuating something?"

He picks the knife back up again and starts wiping it with a cloth, slowly and deliberately. "I'll tell you what happened. Last night, after I got rid of all the evidence…"

I perk up. Is this a confession?

"... of that delicious meal I prepared… "

Oh.

"... and wiped down all the fingerprints…"

Fingerprints?

"...  from those filthy dishes…"

Sigh.

"And sopped up all that blood…"

I wait expectantly.

"... I retired to my room."

Wait, what?

"I went to my room at 1 am and left my little buddy in charge, like I always do." He crosses to a toddler-sized decorative statue that eerily resembles him and kisses it on the cheek. "He sees everything. Why don't you ask  _ him _ what happened last night?"

I blink. "You want me to ask the statue."

Chef scowls. I reconsider.

"I'll ask the statue."

He turns it around and pulls the statue's fake hair to the side, revealing a small indentation. A screen.

I notice words written on the chef statue's collar:  _ Little Buddy Security System. _

I gasp, realizing that Chef may not be as crazy as I think he is. "Oh my gosh, it's a security camera."

Chef grunts. 

This is cutting-edge technology, with a viewing screen and the ability to play back what was recorded without having to take the tape out. Of course Mark could afford this, and when we were in school he had talked about getting something like this, but I hadn't thought he would actually go through with it.

I quickly push the buttons to play back previous footage. There doesn't seem to be anything interesting from the night before, but there's footage dating back several days.

As I flip through, I notice something disturbing. The footage is taken from different locations.

Initially thinking, the Chef could have moved the statue before retiring every night. I would easily accept that as the case… if it's not for the fact that the footage itself moves back and forth.

_ Creepy _ . I decide not to think too hard about it and rewind back to three days before, at 1:17 in the morning.

The statue seems to be in a closet, with wooden slats partially obscuring the view. But I can clearly see one thing: Abe.

Almost immediately, someone else comes into view, and my throat tightens.

Mark shakes Abe's hand as they greet each other cheerfully. They seem to have been on good terms, then.

_ "Look, I'll cut right to the chase,"  _ Mark is saying.  _ "Chef, Butler. Good?" _

Abe takes a breath, pausing before he speaks.  _ "Chef… military background, a little rough around the edges, but despite his demeanor, he's clean. Uh… Butler, he's a new guy. Bit too eager to please, and kind of a snob, but also clean. They shouldn't give you any trouble, Mark, but, uh… let's just say there might be some tension in the household." _

Mark chuckles, clearly not bothered.  _ "Wouldn't have it any other way." _

The tape continues, but the rest of the footage has nothing of interest. I turn it off and push the statue back into place. "Chef, did you know anything about—"

I look around the kitchen, but the Chef is gone. 

How did he disappear so quietly?

How long have I been standing here?

I seem to have more questions than answers at this point, but I write everything down on my notepad. Every suspect has their own section, with their alibis and possible motivations. I had included almost everyone in the house, but now I add a new one.

_ Detective Abe. _

… I should probably ask about his surname sometime.

~

I don’t consider myself to be particularly sensitive. Years in the courtroom made sure of that— Not to mention law school itself. 

Even Mark’s death doesn’t seem to be phasing me as much as maybe it should be. I find myself wondering if I’m callous, or if maybe I just hated Mark. 

I stop in the dining room on the way to the balcony, my heart jumping.

No, that can’t be true, I decide. If I hated Mark, I wouldn’t have gone to him when his wife left him and offered my services for free so he could file for divorce. I wouldn’t have sat with him, gently prying the wine bottle from his hands and letting him cry into my shoulder. 

Mark was my friend. I’m not glad that he’s dead. 

_ Just because I’m not weeping like a child doesn’t mean I don’t care _ . 

Mark's death is upsetting, but I'm able to focus on my task. Despite everything, I'm not easily swayed.

However, when I find Damien hastily wiping tears from his face, it becomes hard to breathe.

I step out onto the balcony and pocket my notepad and pencil stub. He's wringing his cane between his hands and pacing back and forth. He's tense, his normally excellent posture bent and painful. 

He notices me before I can say anything, and turns away, quickly passing his hand over his eyes. "Emma."

"Damien."

"I'm sorry you saw that argument with the Colonel."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not… I lost my temper, and it wasn't right, and… " He turns to me. His eyes are red, but he carefully maintains composure. "He must be in shock. The Colonel's an eccentric… it's his best quality and his worst."

"You were good friends with both of them, weren't you?" I ask gently.

Damien nods. Swallows hard. Looks away, then back at me and steps closer. He lowers his voice. "Emma… I don't know what to do." He clenches his cane in both hands, so hard his knuckles turn white. "I know I'm supposed to be a leader in this scenario, but I… I can't help but feel lost. I've known Mark for years, since we were kids! And now he's just…" His voice cracks. "... Gone?"

He chokes on a breath, and a tear slides down his cheek. My arms automatically lift and his head drops to my shoulder. 

For a moment we stand, arms around each other. Mourning.

Damien's shoulders shake. Hot tears drip onto my neck.

I rub his back, my throat closing.  _ How strange,  _ I think offhandedly,  _ that it seems only tragedy will bring us together. _

He pulls away. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, pulling out his handkerchief and wiping his face. "I don't… I don't know what came over me."

I squeeze his arm. "It's all right. You may be mayor, but… you're still human, Damien."

Damien smiles then, only slightly. "Thank you, Emma. These are… terrible circumstances to be in, but… all the same, I'm glad you're here."

We part, with a bit more hesitance than usual. Our eyes meet. 

There's something different there this time. A question that neither of us has dared to ask in the ten years we've known each other.

I fight to keep my breath even.  _ Surely this isn't an appropriate time. But if we lose this moment, will we ever gain it back? _

Then we step apart, and the opportunity dissipates.

"So what will you do?" I ask softly.

Damien shakes his head. "I don't know. I… don't have any answers right now. Thank you for your counsel… and comfort, Emma. Truly. But right now, I… I just need to be alone… to process all of this. We'll talk soon, but I need to think."

I nod. "I understand. I'll keep you updated."

"Please do."

I watch him walk to the railing of the balcony, his fist still clenched around his cane, but he's standing a bit straighter. I smile a little.

"BAILEY!"

The harsh whisper jolts me, and I whip around to see Abe hiding (not very well) behind a topiary and gesturing me over violently. "Hey! Get over here, now! Hurry up!"

"Abe?" I dash over to him. "What's going on?"

He grabs my wrist and pulls me back toward the house. "You're not gonna believe this. I can hardly believe this!"

"Believe  _ what?! _ "

"The body. It's gone."

He pushes me into the parlor. 

"It's just gone, look!"

He's right. All that's left is the crude taped outline and makeshift barriers.

_ Impossible, _ I think.  _ That's insane. How could a body just… disappear? _

This case is becoming stranger and stranger.

Little do I know that we haven't even scratched the surface.

 


End file.
